


Cinderella

by zigostia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Infidelity, M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 10:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14850647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia
Summary: Violin on the coffee table, cooling tea on the kitchen counter; two coats side-by-side on the rack near the door.





	Cinderella

“You forgot this,” John said.

In his arms was a violin, gently cradled; horizontally, like one would hold an infant.

Sherlock’s eyes traced up the curve of John’s shoulder, his neck, his eyes—split second before darting away. Tentatively returning, rising to his hair—plastered to his forehead, water dripping off the tips.

Look out the door: pale yellow street lights reflected in the rain, pooling in potholes where the pavement dipped. A gust of wind turned the world at a slant, an angled downpour sweeping the streets. Cabs splashed onto the sidewalk where pedestrians hurried by.

Back to John. Eyes, arms, shoulders, a drop of moisture rolling down his neck. Violin held close to his chest. (Like something precious.)

“You’re here,” Sherlock said.

John tilted his head. The trail of water slid down his clavicle, melting into the collar of his custom-tailored suit. He tapped his fingers on the violin case. “You forgot this,” he repeated.

Sherlock looked at John and John looked back. Eyelids fluttering, lips pursed.

“You’re here,” he said, again, though he did not know why—it was, after all, quite obvious, even before the first time.

John shrugged. “Mary—Mary’s home,” he said, and Sherlock realized what he had meant. (Not so obvious after all.)

“Home.” The word felt like lead, dissolving like grit on his tongue. “And you—”

“I’m here,” John said, stepping inside, “to return your violin.” He held it out with both hands.

Sherlock took it. Smoothed one hand over the top, down the sides, along the edges. Dry. He looked to John, who was running his fingers through his hair, droplets spraying out and hitting the wallpaper.

John glanced at Sherlock, then to the violin. “Didn’t want to ruin the instrument. Water damage and all that.” He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Rain on my wedding day,” he murmured. “Ironic.”

Sherlock frowned. “Unless rain has a negative correlation with weddings—”

John shook his head. “Nevermind.”

Sherlock nodded curtly, transferring the violin case into his right hand, fingers curling around the handle.

Their eyes met. They looked away.

John swallowed. “So—”

“Stay,” Sherlock blurted, the word bursting like a firecracker on his tongue.

John’s gaze met Sherlock’s again, and this time he held it still.

“It’s better if you dry off. These types of storms rarely last long. Too powerful to sustain for prolonged periods of time.” Sherlock felt more words tumble past his lips, tripping on the wires, following the footsteps of the first escaped. “It started to rain about twenty minutes ago. You hailed a cab, but it took you a while judging by your coat, perhaps four, five minutes.” He took in a breath, sharply. “It would only be a moment longer. Ten minutes at most. You could perhaps even salvage your suit at this rate.”

He finished his sentence and then clamped his mouth shut, cutting off the rest of his words.

John was quiet for a moment.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, alright.”

Sherlock’s heart tumbled in a way that was irrationally corporeal. “Really?”

John nodded, face passive. (Facade fully fitted.)

“Come on, then.” Sherlock turned with footsteps that were feathery-light, revealing none the severity of his pounding heart as he began to ascend to 221B.

On the seventh step, he heard the bottom stair creak as John stepped foot onto the stairs and followed.

Sherlock opened the door to their—his—the flat. John entered, hanging his coat on the hook. Water trickled down, running along the hem, accumulating at the bottom.

Sherlock placed the violin atop the morning paper, on the coffee table. He turned around to find that John had followed.

John stumbled, stopped, tilted his face towards Sherlock. Surely, much closer than he needed to be.

Sherlock’s breath came shallow, scarce.

“Tea?” The word tumbled out.

John raised an eyebrow. “It’s quite late.”

Sherlock tightened his lips and looked away.

“Tea would be lovely,” John conceded, walking to the kitchen, “but I’d rather make it myself.”

Sherlock followed. “You don’t trust me with making the two of us tea?”

John hummed, performing actions without thought—sugar in the cupboard, kettle set to boil, two cups on the kitchen counter, side-by-side. “Surprisingly, no. Not really.”

Sherlock smiled, just a bit.

“Actually,” John continued, “I don’t think you’ve ever made a proper cup of tea in your life.”

“Is that right?”

“Mm.” The smile spread to John, now. “You’ve become reliant on Mrs. Hudson and I.”

“Mrs. Hudson and me.”

“Oh, shut up. You don’t know how to make tea, you can’t criticize me on my grammar. Honestly, what kind of Britain are you?”

A laugh escaped him, bubbling out. John grinned, his face clearing. Navy blue eyes twinkling like a midsummer night sky.

“I guess you’re gonna have to learn,” John said off-handedly.

Sherlock’s smile winked out like a candle in a breeze. The air solidified around them, crackling.

John’s expression shifted with the atmosphere. His lips curved, but the smile had seeped away from his eyes.

The tea was ready.

“I suppose I will,” Sherlock said, voice light as he picked up the cup. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually.”

He sipped. It scalded his tongue, searing down his throat.

“Two spoonfuls of sugar,” John muttered. “That’s how you like it. And a splash of milk, not too much.”

Sherlock took another sip, savoured. (Two spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of milk.)

“I’ll be sure to remember that,” he said.

“You like it strong.” Still not looking at him. “I keep your tea bag in longer than mine. If we didn’t sleep the night before I use two.”

John opened his mouth again, closed it. Nodded. Grabbed his own cup and gulped, wincing at the heat.

Sherlock stared into his tea. It was a creamy beige (a splash of milk). “Thank you, John.”

John smiled. “Finally,” he said softly. “Years of making you tea, and this is the first time you’ve acknowledged it.”

Sherlock kept his eyes on his cup. The surface of the liquid trembled, ripples emanating from the centre. “No―thank you. For everything.”

John coughed. “Of course. I… I should thank you, too.” His voice was rough. “But you know, already. All of it.” He shifted on his feet, glancing away. “You probably know me better than I do.”

“Do I?” Sherlock asked, quietly.

John raised his eyes to him, without a word; there was no need.

Outside, the Bell Tower struck forty-five minutes after eleven. The final bong rang out, echoing, held suspended before succumbing to the silence that quickly engulfed the room.

John tilted his head. “It stopped raining,” he said.

Sherlock looked away. “I suppose Mary will be waiting.”

John’s gaze sharpened. “Yeah. She will be.”

Sherlock sipped. Tiny sips. Savouring.

“I guess I should get going, then,” John said.

Sherlock nodded, face blank. (Careful, now.)

John tipped back his teacup. Sherlock watched his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

When he finished, John went over to the sink.

“Leave it,” Sherlock said. “I’ll wash it later.”

John placed the teacup into the sink. His voice was delicately sardonic. “You’ve never done the dishes a single time in the years we’ve lived together, and you offer right when I’m leaving.”

(Leaving.)

Sherlock left his teacup on the counter, next to the sink. Half-finished.

At the door, John turned to Sherlock. His coat hung from the hook, water absorbed into a dark spot on the carpet.

“So.” John’s voice was curt. “I’ll be at―at mine and Mary’s.”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured.

“And you have my cell.”

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement.

“You can visit. Text, call. Whatever. If you―if you need me.”

“Why would I need you?”

John exhaled. “No reason at all.”

He reached for his coat.

“Wait,” Sherlock blurted.

John’s arm stopped, drew back. “What, Sherlock?”

“You should…” Sherlock rubbed the hem of the pocket of his dress pants between two fingers. “You returned my violin. Thank you.”

“Yeah, well. It’s your violin.”

Sherlock swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I must express my gratitude.”

“Mm-hmm.” John’s voice was exceedingly, painfully soft.

Sherlock opened his mouth and the words spilled over.

“I could play something for you,” he said.

John smiled. “I’d love that.”

The coat was left on the hook.

Sherlock unclasped the violin case (dry; John had kept it dry, safe), tightened the bow, lifted the instrument and tucked it beneath his chin.

John settled down into his chair. His thumbs rubbed circles into the armrests, his legs crossed at the ankles. Comfortable, easy. Familiar. Sherlock closed his eyes, the silhouette imprinted into his mind.

Up until this moment, he had presumed the song he would play to be the waltz. Rather predictable, really. A final performance for the groom.

But when the bow settled down onto the strings and was drawn across, the song coaxed out was something entirely different. His fingers moved with a deeper subconsciousness than surfaced thought, an intuitive muscle memory making itself heard through the intermediary of an instrument.

He played, allowing his mind to sway, to wander, to tread the line across verboten thoughts. The music served as a distraction, blanketing the room. With the shield of this melody, he let himself think, wonder, wish.

The end of an era. (Don’t get involved.)  _(I’m afraid it’s a bit too late for that, big brother.)_ He would visit, surely, but—Mary. Something strange about her, prickling in the very corner of his mind. (Needed a background check with Mycroft. Again.)

The music filled in the gaps between his thoughts, the ones that whispered and hissed, sharp and stabbing in his mind. These ridiculous, futile efforts: leaving the violin at the venue and now utilizing it for even more, stalling and prolonging the little time he had left with a man who was soon to be no longer just  _his—_ was it regret that wrenched at his chest, or merely disgust at the strength of his affiliation?

Perhaps this song would never end. Perhaps he could play, play until the strings cut through his fingers and his hand seized up, and still he would go on, and John would sit in his (his) chair in their (their) flat and they could be like this for the rest of their lives, and that would be enough.

(No; never enough.)

He had thought that perhaps this, just this, the two of them, like this _—oh, Mary—_

John was saying something. Sherlock continued, drowning him out, gentle waves lapping over thoughts that were jagged like barbed wire.

Louder. “Sherlock.”

(Was that vibrato or were his hands shaking?)

“Sherlock, stop.”

He opened his eyes, the note faltering.

John’s eyes were cobalt blue, the bruised petal of a magnolia bud; memories and moments reflected in his irises.

“Come here.”

Sherlock lowered his bow. His voice was light, a casual tone masking his tremor. “What for?”

“Just—come here.”

And who was he to deny? Loosening the bow, dropping the violin from his chin, placing both down onto the coffee table; hesitant steps brought him to John’s chair. He peered at him, unspoken words hanging in the air.

“Sherlock,” John said, his tone heavily implicating that he was conveying more than what his words carried.

“John.” Sherlock spoke the word carefully, tasting it, feeling the way it slipped off his tongue, his lips hugging the curves of the consonants, the roll of the vowel. He very much enjoyed saying it, he realized, and he was rapidly coming to a great number of conclusions now that it was quickly becoming much too late.

“Sherlock,” John said again, a quiet click on the  _k._ His name on John’s tongue was easy, comfortable, like it was supposed to be there all along. “When I said  _come here...”_

The air between them thinned, the barrier around the two of them stretching to the point of ruin.

Sherlock drew in a sharp, stuttering breath, took a stumbling step forward, and that was all it took for it to tear.

John rose, his arms coming around Sherlock to steady his fall as they came back down onto the chair.

Sherlock’s knees were bent, his body sprawled against-across-on John, limbs tangled and jabbing, but neither of them noticed as John folded Sherlock into his arms, pulling him in—Sherlock shrunk to half his size, curling into a spot in John’s lap; head low, face against the curve of John’s shoulder, rumpling the collar.

His heart skyrocketed. Eighty, ninety, one hundred, one hundred twenty beats per minute, ricocheting inside his ribcage, throwing itself against the barriers of his chest. His skin tingled, simmering just beneath the surface, bursts of heat spider-webbing from each pinpoint of contact.

“John,” he said, his words a rumble. Raw and fraying at the edges. “John, what—”

“Shh,” John whispered, mouth brushing against the shell of his ear. His voice sounded like broken glass. “Can we—can we? Just—” He exhaled, breath shaky and hot on the side of Sherlock’s head.

Alarms in his mind, rapidly being overrun by sensation: John’s arms around his torso, John’s jumper against his cheek, John—John.

He opened his mouth, words surging against his lips. John made a noise in his throat, a cross between a whimper and a sob, and ran his hands down Sherlock’s spine. He pressed his face into his curls, nosing along his hairline. The words dissolved into a hoarse, quiet gasp.

“Sorry,” John murmured, lips against his temple, tickling. “Sorry. I—” He pressed his mouth into the soft patch of skin behind Sherlock’s ear, muffling the end of his words.

Sherlock’s mind was being sucked into a whirlpool, spiralling down; too many, too much, overwhelming his senses and flooding his thoughts, rationality being rapidly smothered with the reality of the situation—John Watson, arms around him, solid and strong and close, so close—hands and breath and skin. His chest heaved, shallow and sporadic.

This was wrong—

(Wasn’t it?)

—this was—

John was—he couldn’t possibly—

Too much. It was too much to process and his mind went into a frenzy trying to decipher it all, running around in circles, burning itself up until it overrode his front and he succumbed to sensation, was reduced to nothing but a visceral layer of instinct. His hidden recesses, usually kept dormant, buried under lock-and-key, stirred, surfaced, and began to dominate.

John was here, it said. John Watson—here. The two of them, sitting in John’s chair, together. Violin on the coffee table, cooling tea on the kitchen counter; two coats side-by-side on the rack near the door.

“Fuck,” John whispered, hoarse and fierce into Sherlock’s hair. He was shaking like an autumn leaf in a breeze, a hair’s width away from snapping. He bumped his nose against Sherlock’s jawline, lips ghosting. Shuddered, a shiver that shot across a million and one points of contact and transpired within Sherlock, passing possession.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He smoothed a hand down John’s back. His chest ached with a viscerality that shouldn’t be possible—and yet it throbbed, along with something twisting in his throat, fluttering in his gut. Trembling with the strength it took to hold everything together, take it all and force it down, keep it from bursting out.

He nuzzled his nose into John’s hair. Damp, drying. (Inhale: petrol, pavement, petrichor. Leave-in conditioner. Sillage; the fleeting fragrance of women's perfume.) (Clair de la Lune.) He pressed his lips against John’s temple, tasting sweat, skin, and London rain.

Slowly, slowly, John dwindled down. Guided by Sherlock, he breathed, rise and fall, push and pull. Like always, like every time, before and after and always—a balancing act. Light and dark, black and white, fusing in the centre.

And it was in this stillness, these swirls of grey, that they finally heard what the other was saying. It reached the two of them soundlessly, flowing into their minds without a word.

Sherlock knew. He knew that if the mobile in John’s pocket were to ring, this moment would be shattered, disappearing in wispy strands that faded away as rapidly as morning dew in the summer sun. Irrevocable, irretrievable. He knew that, in the morning, he would wake to rays of light streaming through the curtains of their—the—his flat with a horrible crick in his neck, the lingering taste of tea in his mouth, the scent of John’s hair slipping away like fine sand through his fingers. With each passing tick of the clock, the moment where they would have to part grew overbearing, towering over them the way night crept up into the evening sky, seeping into the light.

He knew that he was taking down every last smidgen of information, detailing this moment to the millibyte. Solidifying an image in his mind, a portrait with a glass cover and a gold-edged frame. He knew he would visit it, time to time (every time,  _oh,_ all the time), run his hand along the plating and close his eyes, remember the warm weight of John’s chin on the top of his head, his arms around him, cradling him (like something precious). The scent of him, surrounding and engulfing and whole.

And so, he closed his eyes. Held John closer, ever so closer. Pushed his face into John’s neck, lips feeling his carotid flutter and jump.

Right now. That was all. This instant, this second. Now, the next.

John pressed his cheek against Sherlock’s curls and tightened his arms, a trembling exhale warming his skin. The tugging in his sternum increased, a red string pulling the two of them until the space between them was all but gone.

Silently, the flat filled. Questions, answers, memories and promises, everything—everything. This was luminous, incandescent, a shining, suspended scene encased in a beacon of light, a glowing dome of embers. Untouchable. (Ephemeral.) In this moment, Sherlock let himself let go.

This was it. One second. Now, the next.

Outside, the clock tower struck a full hour.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [finamour's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour) prompt challenge, the theme being cuddling. This... counts as cuddling. Right?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Clock Tower](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14852414) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)
  * [[Cover] Cinderella](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14854515) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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